The Debt To Pleasure: Saint Tropez

Tuesday, September 23, 2014
The First Day of Fall

     I am, I know, frugal: I have not had a meal in a restaurant since I arrived in Sainte Maxime, economizing by buying nourishment in the local grocery store or boulangerie.  Breakfast in the hotel is 9, 50 Euros and I cannot spring for it, even though I dearly wanted a decaffeinated coffee.  However, at 6,00 Euros (about $7.70 USD), I could not justify it.  I was thrilled when I found that La Tarte Tropezienne has a sophisticated machine that makes all different different kinds of coffee: the white plastic cup descends, the divine liquid is expressed and at the end, a tiny clear plastic spoon drops into the cup.  This is where the local builders get their coffee before going to work first thing in the morning at 6:30 a.m. There's no decaffeinated coffee, but at 1,00 euro a cup ($1.29), I'll go back on caffeine.

     I did, however, come here because I wanted to "pretend that France isn't in the state its in for a few days", as I wrote on August 20, "hoping to rub shoulders with that world that never changes, the world of wealthy people on the Riviera".  Now that I'm installed in Sainte Maxime, a place that fulfills every need of mind at present, I realize what a silly characterization of what I wanted I sketched: the towns and villages of Villefranche-sur-Mer, Beaulieu, and Menton are lovely and they are certainly filled with wealthy people, particularly in their environs.  So is Sainte Maxime as well as the neighboring villages: St. Raphael, Le Lavandou, Ramatuelle, Saint Tropez.

     What I find in Sainte Maxime is a studied quiet, the appearance of effortless tranquility --which is, of course, the product of a village consensus to keep Sainte Maxime attractive to residents and visitors who like it the way it is, unsexy --certainly in contrast to Saint Tropez.  Even more so, Port Cros, one of Îles de Hyères, two hours away by boat, which I visited yesterday.  The island, a nature preserve, has few residents, among them, Jean-Arthus Berthand, the famous photographer.  He bought the dilapidated fort on the point and built a farmhouse next to it, a place to which he can retreat after his journeys photographing around the world.  There are few other houses and only one hotel.  There is one boat a day there, six days a week, which is how Port Cros stays as quiet as it is --there were twenty-five people on the Plage du Sud --a beach that can be reached only after a thirty-five minute hike-- there yesterday.  Swimming in the waters of its tiny bay, I splashed like a child, completely happy: no foreign noises fouling the air, only the birds, the water, the sun, the hills and the fresh air.

     Giving myself over to pleasure isn't easy, my sensibility has never liked second-best and the third rate.  I am lucky that I can permit myself the indulgence of this vacation, but noticing how completely I have abandoned all but the lightest exercise and taken to enjoying afternoon naps, I can also say that inwardly I yearned for this, even if I never expressed it to myself.  The French have an expression, se replier sur soi, to withdraw inwardly.  For me to be happy, I have to allow myself to do this from time to time in some location that fulfills my dream of beauty and tranquility, and allows me to reconnect from my obsessive-compulsive orientation to measure the value of my days by the number of tasks accomplished.

     I'm reminded of the story of Jesus' visit to the sisters of Bethany, Mary and Martha.  Mary sits at Christ's feet to be near him, while Martha bustles to make sure the house is worthy of the honor of his visit.  Christ gently reproaches Martha, saying her sister "has the better part" --contemplation versus action.  Of course, the two are not mutually exclusive, as the Jesuits teach: laborare est orare --to work is to pray--  is their motto.

     But all work and no play makes Marta a very dull girl, so I am going to enjoy reading the books I've put off reading and nap and contemplate the Golfe de Saint Tropez and amble through old Sainte Maxime, doing nothing, forgetting everything, paying off my debt to pleasure. 

     --Incidentally, Saint Tropez isn't about any of this, it's about something else, much less lasting, conspicuous consumption and fleeting thrills.  Bulgari, Chanel, Armani --these temples of international style are well-represented, along with many other global brands, alongside less well-known, but equally expensive French ones.  The yachts in the harbor have Cayman Islands, Kingston, Jamaica; Road Harbour, British Virgin Islands, Valetta, Malta and similarly posh registries: their young crews can be seeing washing down the boats first thing in the morning, the owners below deck or absent.  Roman Abramovic, the billionaire, has a house nearby, Alain Delon lives in the hills; Helmut Berger returns every summer.  The tide of fame washes in and out here, stranding some a long way from home.

     I didn't take a single picture: it was too ugly.